


The Case of the Great Chip Butty

by Sculpts



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Sherlock Holmes, Wholock, sherlock's endless suffering, the doctor is a pain in the behind and nobody is surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-23
Updated: 2014-08-23
Packaged: 2018-02-14 09:24:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2186379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sculpts/pseuds/Sculpts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he’d known three months ago what would happen after stepping into that damned police box, he’d have left the case unsolved. Happily. He’d even have let John blog about it – hell, he’d have written the entry himself if that was the cost. Sherlock Holmes foiled by a vanishing box, wonderful, good, fine. <i>Fine</i>, because then he wouldn’t—</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Case of the Great Chip Butty

He hates him. Honestly, truly _hates_ him. Usually he wouldn’t waste the time, even hating takes up valuable space for thought, but for this man—

_Tnk._

But for this man—

_Tnk tnk TNK_.

“Sherlock!”

If he’d known three months ago what would happen after stepping into that damned police box, he’d have left the case unsolved. Happily. He’d even have let John blog about it – hell, he’d have written the entry himself if that was the cost. Sherlock Holmes foiled by a vanishing box, wonderful, good, fine. _Fine_ , because then he wouldn’t—

“Sher-l _ock_ \- Hoo _ooo_ oolmes.”

Sherlock groans, growls, short and strangled off as he rips the goggles from his face and sends his chair scraping back, tossing them irately towards the sofa and a likely fate of sinking down under the cushions unless they’re rescued by an interfering landlady in his now near-inevitable afternoon of absence. Why? Because that last dulcet cry of his name marked the union of a certain someone’s already adequately obnoxious voice with a particularly well manufactured loudspeaker. Directly underneath his lounge window. 

There are really only two potential actionable courses when the Doctor comes a-calling. Option one: you hold your ground, stand fast and employ advanced siege tactics until Mrs Hudson politely answers the door after two knocks or, following the firm imposition of an instruction to never open the door to that man again, a neighbour calls the police about incessant knocking at ungodly hours, or John gets fed up of early morning wake-up calls and threatens to have him a key cut unless he’s let in and ultimately you’re escorted from the building in an overly ceremonious and dignity-deficient victory display orchestrated by an overexcited Labrador pup with a man’s face. Alternatively, and option two of an available two, you straighten your back, stick out your chin and go to greet your tormentor with scarf, coat, gloves and self-respect all comfortably intact. 

Today, for the first time in a while and owing in no small part to the loudspeaker, Sherlock opts for option two.

Shutting the door behind him with a satisfyingly disdainful click of the lock, the detective turns and tugs on his glove as he crosses the short distance between himself and his visitor. 

“Urgent, I assume?”

“Yes.” Pause. A beat from the man in the ridiculous bow tie. “Sort of.”

Instant regret. 

“Ish.” 

The look on the Doctor’s face following that last sentence assures him he’s accurately represented for the man the current temperature of his mood despite his silence. It’s a comfort - for the handful of seconds it takes him to remember his adversary for now is one of the few individuals (occasionally) on this earth who doesn’t quail at a sudden drop in Sherlock Holmes’ core temperature.

“Urgent if you’re in the habit of craving chips, then craving bread two seconds later, then craving chips and bread at exactly the same time. _Exactly the same time_ , Sherlock, imagine that! Anyway, it just so happens you’re _literally_ living right on top of the solution to all my problems, so I thought - hello, it’s been a while since I stopped in on my old and regrettably hatless pal. Why not take him out for lunch?”

If there were a way to tear that stupid grin clean off the Doctor's face without ruining his gloves, he’s not entirely sure he wouldn’t take it.

“Well then. Shall we? I could murder a chip butty.”

That awful tweed jacket hasn’t quite disappeared from his line of vision before Sherlock’s mentally adding the finishing touches to his plan for the fate of Speedy’s Sandwich Bar and Café. 

Resigned to option two, he follows inside.


End file.
